


Blues

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Written back in 2001. At the time, I was extrapolating a movieverse based on the comicsverse, and what I generated doesn't exactly jive with what later developed.

Blue, furry . . . god, the *comfort* of it.  All that warmth and  
intelligence, all that muscle and.  Fur.  Bobby's nuzzled deep into  
that shoulder, which he's far too old to be doing, but Beast just  
holds him.  Tighter and.  Tighter.  Big heart under that fur beating  
time-and-a-half and he's not quite not-crying.  There's an edge of  
something in his fur that's probably blood.

Dark here in the Mercedes.  The Professor's car, the one he takes to  
government meetings.  Scott driving.  Bitter edge of something in  
Bobby's mouth that he can't quite name, and a lot of horror just under  
the surface.

Not fair, because six hours ago he was having a good day.  Jean made  
pancakes and didn't take away the cheeze whiz before he put it to the  
right (the only proper) use.  Rogue played basketball with him.  He  
got back his math test and it was actually a good mark, an A (just  
barely, but real), and it looked like he might finally (finally) have  
something here.  John gave in and leant him those trade copies of  
Johnny the Homicidal Maniac he'd been drooling over for three weeks.  
There was popcorn.  He got his own pillow in the den.

And then they were curled up in the dog-pile heap watching TV and Jean  
came in and changed it to the news without asking, and the CNN anchor  
did the little eye-close thing before repeating that

//Industrial heiress Candace Southern was shot this morning outside  
her Manhattan apartment.  A high-profile fundraiser for mutants'  
rights, Southern was engaged to fellow-organizer and industrialist  
Warren Worthington.  Three men arrested in connection with the  
shooting are believed to be members of Empire State Genetica, a  
radical anti-mutant organization.  Southern was taken to Bethesda  
hospital with critical injuries.  Police have not released any further  
information.//

Jean found Bobby's arm in the pile of now-shocked people and helped  
him get up, found his jacket and let him grab a comic before pushing  
him out the door.  Storm with her.  Scott was getting the Professor  
from Washington.  And through some rip in space-time, they all  
descended on the hospital in the same five minutes, where the  
Professor did something that was probably fairly unethical to convince  
the desk nurse that they should be allowed to go in.

He wonders if anyone's considered how this is going to traumatize his  
poor young brain.  He was scared before they came in, but he wasn't  
prepared for Warren to be there, covered in blood and curled up in one  
of the chairs with his knees pulled up to his chin and his back  
hunched up like it hurt like.  Like something bloody.  Or no wings.    
Or all the weight of his wings weighing him down.  He wouldn't move  
for the Prof, or for Jean.  Only for Scott, who hunched down in front  
of him and talked to him very quietly for long minutes until Warren  
just unfolded and slid onto the floor beside him.  Wrapped himself  
around Scott and.  Cried.  Like nothing Bobby had ever heard before.

So he sat around the other side of the room divider in one of the  
smoke-blue chairs.  Wrinkled his nose a lot at the antiseptic smell.    
Read.  Got through twenty pages or JTHM before he startled to shake  
convulsively and had to put it away.  Wondered what it said about John  
that he owned things like this.  What it said about him that he was  
reading it now.  As Johnny disembowelled all the patrons of fast food  
restaurant for gratuitously using the word 'wacky' and otherwise  
offending the universe.  Impact of a random severed head on the  
counter staff.

Eventually he looked up, probably at exactly the same moment as  
everybody else in the room, and saw the doctor come in.  Covered in  
blood and looking shocky like nobody still on his feet should.  Dark  
eyes locked on Bobby and for a second made his heart stop.  No more  
psycho comics, ever.  And then Bobby realized that the face he was  
looking at wasn't real, and if he reached out, the hand he caught  
wouldn't be human-smooth.

"Hank."

"Robert.  Is Warren . . ."

"He's here."  Jean's voice, softly.  Somewhere behind the divider,  
Warren was still crying, almost soundlessly.  Mouth buried in Scott's  
chest so everything he said just barely sounded.

"Is she dead?"

"Warren, I . . ."

"She's dead."

"Yes.  I'm sorry."

Which they'd already pretty much known, but somehow 'sorry' didn't  
quite cover the look on not-Hank's-face.  More like grief and horror,  
and what sadist had put him in that operating room, anyway?

So he followed Hank back through the hospital-sterile doors.  Nobody  
noticed him, the way nobody ever noticed him.  Sat by the gym-style  
lockets while Hank scrubbed down and showered.  Hands bigger than they  
should have been in his lap.  Hugged him when he came out, and got wet  
in the process.  There was soaking fur under that illusion of a human  
body.  And Hank wrapped both impossibly long arms around him and hung  
on.

Two cars to go home, because Warren was coming with them.  Jean and  
Storm driving the Professor, and Scott driving the rest of them.    
Warren in the front seat like a dead man.  Not even really breathing.  

And Bobby hasn't cried, yet.  But when he got in the car, he climbed  
pretty much into Hank's lap and he isn't getting off it without a  
fight.  The illusion's gone, at least, so when they slide under street  
lights he gets the comfort of Hank's blueness.  And Hank just holds  
him.  Tight like iron.  Would've broken Bobby's ribs a couple of  
years, before he grew to something like adult-sized, before he started  
running with Scott in the early mornings.

Thump of that heart against his ear while they drive.  Hank's hand on  
the back of his head steadies gradually, and stays there, holding  
Bobby against him.

The smell lingering in Hank's fur probably is blood, but under it  
there's a softer, warm-animal smell that Bobby remembers from his  
first days in Westchester.  Which is (he counts) eight years ago.    
Since Scott came and got him out of jail and drove him up from Long  
Island, and he was almost too scared to talk at all.  Most people who  
show up now are a lot older than ten, which is probably a good thing.    
They deal a little better, and don't end up hiding in shadowy corners  
with their Game Boy of Ultimate Security.  Far, far away from people  
who can get frozen.

The way he did, until he hid in the lab, and Hank found him.  Bobby  
didn't scream, though he's seen other people do that when they get a  
faceful of the Beast for the first time.  Just stared up with vague  
thoughts of the Cookiemonster, and then held his arms out.  And got  
picked up by a Hank who was only a bit older then than Bobby is now.    
Who hid in the lab because he *did* scare people.  Who gave Bobby a  
place in the ratty armchair in a corner, and stashed extra batteries  
for his Game Boy in a low drawer.

And that was home for both of them, right until the day the Professor  
gave Hank the toy that lets him 'pass' these days.  He remembers  
Hank's expression holding the little beeper-shaped thing, getting told  
that yeah, he could go to medical school if he wanted to.  Huge black-  
on-brown eyes without expression.  Until the Professor left, and then  
Bobby could come over and crawl into Hank's lap and hug him as hard as  
he could.  And not-cry.  Because this was his best, *best* friend, and  
going away was what Hank wanted, and it would have been so incredibly  
unfair for Bobby to cry on him then.

And he does come back to Westchester sometimes.  Weekends off, major  
holidays.  Bobby's birthday.  Once last year in the middle of the  
night he just showed up, hands in pockets and that big thing-you-  
don't-wanna-meet-in-the-dark grin.  Got Bobby out of bed and drove him  
into Salem Centre at 2am and bought them both an obscene amount of  
junk food.  Then took them out to a lake somewhere and provided Bobby  
with a really substantial pillow while he gorged himself on Hostess  
chemically-goodness and fell asleep, face and sticky hands burrowed  
into Hank's fur.

He comes back sometimes for reasons that don't have anything to do  
with Bobby.  When he just comes out and sits for a couple of hours by  
the school's own lake, and stares at the water and the sky.  Bobby  
leaves him alone for the first hour, and then comes out with fruit  
punch and a book or something, and just sits with him.

Tonight he stays close enough to keep smelling Hank when they finally  
get out of the car.  While they both just stand there, ignoring the  
fact that it's raining like drowning outside.  Watch Warren stalk away  
across the lawn towards the water.  His jacket goes flying as soon as  
he's off the driveway's pavement.  His shirt follows it halfway across  
the yard.  The huge wings spread out and stretch like something locked  
up for too long, and then just arc out above Warren's body while he  
stands in the rain with his head down.  

Scott goes after him.  Stands with his arms locked across his stomach  
and his sweater soaking up the rain just inches from Warren's wings.    
Says something and reaches one hand out, resting it between the wings  
and rubbing gently.

Warren turns, finally, and lays his head on Scott's shoulder.  Brings  
the wings in around both of them.  And Hank curls a big arm around  
Bobby's shoulders and pushes him into the house.

He should probably go to bed.  Except that he can't really handle the  
idea of trying to sleep in the room he shares with John.  John's going  
to want to know why the hell they all ran off like that, why he had to  
be in charge of making sure all the younger kids got to bed, and Bobby  
doesn't want to explain.  He only sort of knew Candy, but he knows  
that Warren loved her more than Warren's loved anyone in his over-  
glossy life.  And that his best friend failed to save her.

So he follows the furry blue back to Hank's room instead.  Waits while  
Hank shuffles through the loose papers he left behind last time.  Not  
like he's looking for anything in particular.  Just like he doesn't  
have anything he can do with his hands until Bobby gets up and hugs  
him again.  Then at least he can hang onto Bobby.  Rub his back and  
hug him very.  Tight.  Very tight.  His bones are gonna start creaking  
again in a minute.

"Hey, Blue."

"Mmmm?"

"You wanna let me breathe?"

"Oh.  My apologies, Bobby."

"S'okay."  Because he isn't actually going to let go, or anything.  If  
they just wanna bunny-hop over and dump themselves onto the bedspread,  
they could probably sleep like this.  He knows Hank's warm enough  
without a blanket most of the time, what with the fur, and he should  
be warm enough too, as long as Hank doesn't let go of him.  He'd have  
to sleep in his clothes, but he's done it before, and Hank's just got  
the Captain Underpants shorts, since clothes and fur are sorta  
contradictory.  

But actually Hank does let go of him, and makes him take his shoes and  
jeans and sweater off.  Takes off his little wire-rims and lays them  
very carefully on the night table.  And only then lets Bobby curl up  
against him, wrapped in his t-shirt and boxers and the blanket that  
only Hank's agility could have got around them both.

If he can't sleep still, it's less of an issue, because at least  
they're both quiet.  And Bobby can get his face down into the fur and  
muscle and warmth and.  Nuzzle.  Just smelling, at first.  Rubbing  
after.  Trying to stop his brain swirling with the feel of the fur  
against his mouth.  Like if he could crawl deep enough into that body,  
things would stop hurting him.

Wakes sometime later with his hand buried so deep in that fur he's  
found the skin underneath.  Amazing warmth there, but he guesses  
that's not really so strange, since Hank's warm to touch even on the  
surface of his fur.  Faint slight silkiness of the skin that he can  
follow, moving his hand sleepily across the big chest, until he finds  
something small and naked and delicately pointed that he strokes  
absently while he drifts.  Not really awake, yet, only happy and warm  
and buried in the Hank-smell that's all around him.

"Bobby . . ."

"Mmm."

"You may wish to reconsider the activity with which your digits are  
presently occupied."

"In English?"

"Are you aware of what you're doing?"

Just slightly bemused.  Bobby tilts his head out of the warm fur he  
fell asleep against and ratches his eyes open far enough to spot his  
fingers.  Stretched far across Hank's chest and burrowed into the fur  
just at mid-pectoral and.  Stroking the nipple there.  And he tries to  
think for a minute before deciding that yeah, he does want to be doing  
that if it's alright, and he did sort of know he was doing it, before.

"S'okay?"

"I don't believe I was."  Hitch in the breath.  "Objecting.  Oh Bobby  
. . ."

"Feels good?"

"Verily."

So he goes back to it, and lets his face go back into that fur.  Hard  
muscle under it.  Warmth of this person against him.  The mind under  
it that he doesn't always get but that sorts his life out for him when  
he needs it and heals people maybe better than anyone else Bobby's  
ever met.  

Quiet in the room so he gets to hear the little hitches in Hank's  
breathing.  Might even if his ear weren't so close to the man's lungs.    
Something almost like panting while he rolls the tiny bud between his  
fingers, loving the texture of the skin and the pleasure running out  
from his touch.  As good, he's willing to bet, at the brush of fur  
over his own bare skin.  Very, very soft against the thigh he threw  
over Hank's legs some time in the last couple of hours.  Against the  
small of his back where Hank's started stroking him gently.

The pleasure's evidently enough to bring Hank's arms around him and  
boost him on top of that huge body.  Not as far for him to reach once  
he's moved, and much more comfortable.  Warm-animal and blood smells  
all over both of them.  Hank's fingers work the muscles in his back  
like something between a massage and molestation.  Down his spine to  
the waist of his boxers and then out to his sides.  Not even danger  
territory.

Maybe just a little closer to it when Bobby pushes himself up towards  
Hank's face and comes up against Hank's erection.  Against his own.    
Oh.  But *good*, an extra pleasure-spike when he rubs himself, face  
and body, against Hank.  Something to ground him when he tilts his  
head up towards the eyes shining down towards him in the dark and  
whispers *Hank* and then presses his mouth to that big one.

*mind the fangs*

So.  Carefully.  Very carefully.  While he gets to feel the short fur  
and very soft skin at Hank's mouth and the faint moisture there.    
Hank's hands high on his back now, one between his shoulder blades and  
the other at the base of his neck, holding him there.  Not a threat,  
even with the claws brushing his skin.  Just.  Very warm.  Comforting.

Soft along the inside of his thighs and the insides of his arms.  All  
over his chest after Hank peels the t-shirt off over his head and  
drops it off the side of the bed.  Hard against his own erection.  The  
sheer pleasure of it when he rocks hard.  Gasps that push out from  
Hank's mouth into his.  And if sometimes he's whimpering a few  
begging-animal sounds himself, it's not really unreasonable, all  
things considered.

Hank's hands slide down inside Bobby's boxers, and Bobby's suddenly  
arched back, just loving the slide of fur across his skin.  Loving the  
very gentle touch that brushes between his ass cheeks.  This is okay.    
Maybe better than that.  And he's figuring out most of the things he  
needs to know himself.  Like that the skin under that fur is super-  
sensitive.  That the ears are too, and he can get a full-body writhe  
out of Hank just by tracing the rim of one of them with the tip of his  
finger.

"Bobby."

"Yeah."  Not a question.  Not even really a conversational opening.

"Are you --" bucks against him "-- certain this is something you  
want?"  Loud *choose _now_* note in that question.  Because, Bobby  
realizes, they're only about two half-steps from actually doing this.    
And Hank knows maybe better than anybody that it's not something    
Bobby's done before.  Hank knows about every kiss, every crush.  About  
the couple of times he and John.  On his bed.  And how he didn't  
exactly deal afterwards so much as freak and not-deal until Hank came  
home and took him out into the woods and stuck him up in a tree and  
lectured him for an hour on ingrained prejudices and other things that  
he already, frankly, knew a lot about, though maybe not in quite that  
*way*.

His own nipples are aching right now, which hasn't, as far as he can  
remember, ever happened before, and the front of his boxers is past  
sticky.  And he feels right now like this is the only thing keeping  
his heart from breaking loose.

Bobby sits up, settles his ass against Hank's lower belly, and pulls  
one of those huge hands up to his chest.  Holds it there and just  
stares down.  Tries to think of a way to say *I want this* that'll  
make him sound adult enough to be believed.  Looks and.  Looks.  And  
eventually just nods and feels Hank gather him up.

Very warm against Hank's body.  Completely surrounded by it as long as  
he keeps being held like this.  Hank sits up and props himself against  
something and rocks Bobby gently while Bobby rubs his face into the  
fur in front of him.  Finds a tiny nipple in the expanse of pelt and  
tongues it this time and gets a very serious thrust against his ass in  
response.  Finds he doesn't have the breath to howl when Hank's  
fingers strip him of his boxers and start stroking him.  Nothing in  
the world like the touch of fur just.  There.  Newly wet touch,  
running up along his belly and down along his cock and behind it,  
massaging him into something like hyper-arousal.  Kiss on his neck,  
very softly.

He forgets, sometimes, how careful Hank is.  That in spite of having  
hands half the size of Bobby's ribcage, he performs open-heart  
surgery.  When he kisses Bobby, it's like that.  Just the faintest  
brush, a little bit wet.  Over and over.  Along his throat and  
collarbone and jaw and eyes.  He could come just from this.  Only.    
Not quite fair, that.  And he needs this to be mutual, like for a  
change maybe he can give Hank something instead of just sucking up all  
the comfort this man's ever had to give him.

The shorts are heavier than they look, and they don't peel away  
easily.  Much easier at first just to slide his hand inside and touch.    
Which gets almost as much reaction out of him as it does out of Hank.    
Because like the nipples, this skin is very, very soft, and  
startlingly not-furry.  Extra-warm and very hard in his hands and.    
Big.  Which he should have expected, even just to keep it in proportion,  
but it's one thing to sort of *know* that, abstractly, and another to  
close your hand around it.

"Oooooooh, my --"

"Stars and garters. Yeah."  Against Hank's mouth.  Feels the smile and  
the next gasp as he tightens his grip just a bit.  Slicking in his  
grasp.  And once he's got the motivation, Hank's willing to help him  
get the shorts loose.

After which they're both a lot more comfortable, and Bobby gets to  
feel that cock against his.  The incredible slickness of it.  Huge  
against his belly.  Only he keeps thinking that.  He wants it.  Which  
is one of those things he's actually going to have to say out loud,  
very clearly, if he expects to be believed.

What he actually gets out is, "Would you . . . if I asked, would you.    
Fuck me."  And then just buries his face in Hank's chest and breathes  
hard.  Somewhere between humiliated and turned on.

"Yes."

Quite possibly the best single-syllable answer Hank's ever given him.    
Even once Hank makes him understand that he has to prep himself if  
he's serious about this.  One big finger and its threateningly huge  
claw trailing down his cheek for emphasis.  But he thinks maybe he can  
do it.  Very secure with Hank's arms bracing him while he knees up and  
slicks himself out of the tube that actually was in the night stand  
when Hank reached for it.

Soft rumbling breaths in his ear while he slides the first finger in.    
The angle's awkward and he can't really get as deep as he should be,  
and it hurts for a minute but.  After that it's good.  Like stroking  
himself gently.  A little more intense when he slides the second  
finger in.  A lot more when he pushes the third one in, and now he  
can't actually get very deep at all.  But if they do this carefully,  
it might be okay.

Crawls down Hank's body, eventually, and just looks.  Pre-dawn light  
through the window just enough for him to get a sense of the cock in  
front of him.  Big, yeah, and shiny-smooth.  Very black, with just the  
faintest blue edge to it.  Just barely curving in towards his belly.    
Hot in Bobby's hand, and against his lips when he bends to kiss the  
head before he slicks it.

After that, very carefully moving in Hank's arms.  Fur and muscle all  
around his own too-bare, too-skinny body while he lets himself down.    
Long minute of panting before he can stand to take the head in, and a  
lot of whimpering-animal noises when he does.  Cause it *hurts*.    
Easier only because Hank isn't asking if he wants to stop, not since  
that first *do you* that Bobby cut off by kissing him as hard as he  
could.

Almost twenty minutes to slide himself all the way down, and his legs  
are screaming from the strain by the time he does.  He has to stay  
there for a while, pressed against Hank's chest and whimpering, until  
it stops hurting enough to make him blind and just gets to be this  
*pressure* inside that he can move against.  That rubs in him in ways  
that make his own cock interested again.  And while he isn't moving  
very much, the brush of soft belly-fur against his reawakening  
erection is amazing.

Fangs against his tongue the next time he kisses.  Warm fur all around  
him.  Very wonderful feeling when it brushes against his ribs.    
Absolutely contained in this body-lock.  Safe.  Hank whispers in his  
ear that he doesn't have to do this any faster than he wants to.    
Source-rumble of those words in the chest pressed to his.  

Moves carefully, feeling the cock inside him press hard whenever he  
shifts a little.  Feels it rearrange everything inside him the first  
time he gets brave to kneel up and thrust down for real.  Breathy  
little scream out of his throat almost wholly swallowed by the animal-  
howl Hank lets out.  Hands on his hips after that, gently urging him  
to do that again.  Again.

At the end, he just hangs on around Hank's neck, kisses him as deeply  
as he can without actually crawling inside that other body, and kneels  
up enough that Hank can thrust the way he wants to.  Always carefully  
but very.  Hard.  And a couple of body-lurches at just the right  
moment are more than enough, between the pleasure inside and the fur  
against hic cock, to set Bobby off.  He *feels* himself clamp down,  
and the howl that it drags out of Hank is almost scary.  

Leaves him shaking and still clinging to Hank's neck when the man  
finally relaxes.  Pulls out very, very carefully, cautious of Bobby's  
whimpers of sort-of pain.  And then cradles him.  Rolls them both down  
flat and strokes him all over.  Croons to him while Bobby cries for  
reasons that have nothing to do with the body-shock and a lot more to  
do with the ache he's been carrying since early evening.  Maybe cries  
into Bobby's hair a bit.  Hard to tell while he's so strung-out  
himself, but he thinks he's soggier than he should be, and the fur  
brushing against his cheek is definitely wet.

Decides that maybe he's comfortable like this if Hank is, and dozes  
still draped over the massive body.  Nuzzling himself back down into  
the blue fur, deep as he can.  And just vaguely thinking before he  
sleeps that they're going to be a damn sticky boy and cookie monster  
come morning.

Bobby wakes up later with the slow dread in the base of his stomach  
that suggests that something awful's happened, if he could just  
remember what.  Mood-swings violently up to happy at the feel of  
Hank's body against his, a little to one side now.  Remembers the  
hospital yesterday and whimpers and burrows down and decides not to  
acknowledge that he's awake just yet.

"Oh Bobby."  Something like a sigh.  He's pretty sure Hank doesn't  
realize he's awake.  Brush of words into his hair that aren't really  
meant for him.

Long pause while Bobby snuggles closer and works on pretending the  
world doesn't exist.

Another sigh something like regretful this time.  "Light of my life,  
fire of my loins.  My sin, my soul."

"Fuck you."

Which is probably the fiercest thing he's ever said to Hank, but for  
some god-knows-how reason, he actually *got* that reference, and he  
doesn't like it.  Pushes himself up on both hands and stares down as  
fiercely as he can into the dark eyes staring at him.

"I was wearing *both* my goddamn socks the first time you met me and  
I'm *eighteen* and I *love* you, asshole!"

And then flinches, because that last bit sounds like something out of  
a bad movie script, and he'd like to swallow it.  He doesn't have to,  
but only because Hank gathers him up and squishes him against his  
furry blue chest again.  It smells, right now, like Hank and like sex,  
and it's comfortable enough.  

At some point, though, he's going to have to get up and shower and go  
back to his room to find different clothes.  Get dressed and go  
downstairs and maybe hug Warren or something.  Probably sit with him  
for most of today and most of tomorrow, just to be safe.  Sit  
carefully, because he's aching in a key sitting place.  Sit in Hank's  
lap if he has the choice, because he doesn't think anyone will  
actually notice.  If he's an adult, it's only just barely, and there's  
a huge number of things he's happy to still be able to get away with.


End file.
